


Collection of BuffytVS and AngeltS fandom poetry things and ficlets

by elizaria



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:12:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaria/pseuds/elizaria
Summary: Collection of poetry-ish things and ficlets I wrote on Livejournal, mostly in Buffy and Angel fandom, back in 2004-2006-ish.





	1. W(ors)hipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: W(ors)hipped  
> Characters: Spike/Buffy  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted 2006-03-15] Femmenerd wanted porny poetry .. which I can't really do. What I can do I've named poetrythings in my memories and it has more emphasis on things rather than poetry. Stream of consciousness perhaps? It's too choppy to be drabbles. Still, I like to write it, whatever you wanna call it. [/]
> 
> (when stultiloquentia added this to her call for Jossverse poetry masterlist, I was overjoyed. I went under username queen-chaos on LJ back then.)

**W(ors)hipped**  
  
From above he is watched.  
  
Hands tied, body tensed,  
arms stretching to accommodate silken straps.  
Made to leave no marks.  
But arms,   
hands fisted, red crescents in palms,  
pulling harder.  
Wanting the red.  
Wants proof of tonight he can touch, see,  
hide underneath white shirt cuffs.  
Straightlaced and nobody  
in a sea of suits.  
But not here,  
here he is someone’s  
pet, slave, bitch.  
Call him as you see him.  
As you use him.  
As you want him.  
  
Underneath silk suits and conventional,  
he's inside this cage,  
that you hold the key to.  
  
Watch him,  
his body straining closer,  
sweat pearling on his forehead,  
his throat,  
dampening the straps across his cheek.  
It's bright red,  
like harsh light on a bleeding wound.  
White teeth are sunken deep,  
the ball gagging sounds that curl in his throat.  
He can't speak his  _more_ ,  _now_.  
Not even his  _please_.  
So instead he begs with his eyes,  
with his body,  
every piece of him you want.  
Every bit you touch,  
wants your pleasure.  
Your sounds, your whispers,  
deep groans of satisfaction as you sink him deep into yourself.  
Fuck yourself on him,  
ride him hard, let him watch.  
  
Bliss is your pleasure,  
to see it, taste it, feel it.  
To know he gave it.  
  
He'll stay,  
as a thoroughbred,   
hold on till you let him go.  
Straps and metal, circling tight,  
pressure, sweet pressure that hurts and reminds.  
To wait, pant and plead and ache.  
All of him,  
is yours.  
  
Allow him worship,  
make him know he's yours,  
in words and blood.  
Marks and whispers,  
bruises for keeps,  
tattoo your want on his skin.  
Untie the knot and watch him fly.  
  



	2. Ternion(the sum of one and one and one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Ternion(the sum of one and one and one)  
> Characters: Spike/Angel/Buffy
> 
> See chapter 1 for notes. Original post here https://elizaria.livejournal.com/161433.html

**Ternion(the sum of one and one and one)**  
  
He likes it best on his knees,  
to follow, give in and serve.  
Pretty as you please, a postcard in submission,  
knees spread, back straight,  
eyes down.  
  
He likes to watch him take it,  
up close and inside,  
cock, fingers and fangs.  
He likes even more  
to watch her make him.  
Voyeur in the dark,  
this is where he belongs.  
Where they all live.  
  
Desire,   
dark and deep like a flood,  
like the regrets they all have too many of.  
Here guilt is forgotten,  
the regrets are drowned,  
in whispers and sighs,  
in screams and grunts,  
flesh upon flesh.  
  
Neckties,  
made into worlds of contrast.  
Balls and cock,  
wrapped and bound,  
red, black, striped and lilac.  
Colours in silk and satin,  
soft in surface,  
rough in use.  
  
He watches her,  
the pulse beating in her throat.  
She smells of want,  
of skin heated by sun.  
  
Slides the silken strap off her neck,  
cool air against heated flesh,  
open shirt and collarbone glistening with sweat.  
Stretches it tight between her fists,  
the snapping sound of a command  
that needs not be voiced.  
  
Flash in his eyes as he strips,  
as he crawls closer,  
as he makes his flesh available for her,  
for you.  
  
He and he,  
you are shades of the same coin,   
different sides, same blood.   
Origin in a line,  
from blond to dark to blond again.  
  
You always did like blonds the best.  
Or was it the innocence?  
  
Now the innocence is gone,  
burned away in both of them,  
him and her,  
by your tainted hands.  
  
But the shadows of past  
(and present) regrets  
vanishes at the sight of her,  
lifting her skirt.  
Watching him curl between her legs,  
mouth wet and open,  
tongue curling, twisting, stabbing.  
Her red lips open in an O of pleasure,  
white (cold) hands locked around trembling knees.  
  
Drawing out pleasure, tracing every soft crook and curve.  
  
Thumb, fingers,  
tasting, coating, slicking.  
Sliding, curling, twisting.  
  
Face buried in curls,  
hand buried inside,  
her nails digging red stripes.   
Blood on white skin,   
the black tie a leash.  
Her release a sweet sound,  
(like the taste of her blood),  
he drinks it deep.  
  
Waits for his turn.


	3. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted 2004-11-29] unbetaed Spike/Angel

Spike's bitter tongue, piercing words  
keeps Angel afloat  
makes him angry  
breaks his habits  
and won't let him be alone.  
  
Angel's acid  
pouring over Spike  
tearing into memories,  
making him bleed today  
over what was bled and broken then.  
But he takes it,  
and gives back.  
  
Barb for barb,  
but still Angel sees eyes,  
bluer by hurt he wants to take back,  
wants to inflict again.  
  
Colliding emotions have always been them.  
  
But silently Angel is grateful,  
for not being left alone  
for being pushed.  
Doesn't let him drown  
in guilt there's always too much of.  
  
Once Angel tries to speak remorse.  
  
Swagger. 'Poof'. Nasty smile.  
  
Fists againts bones  
quiets the words.  
Brings forth gamefaces.  
Teeth tears less than words,  
but makes the blood visible.  
  
When he swallows it down,  
family coating his tongue,  
he hears the whimpers,  
enjoys the signs of surrender.  
Blame is on the demon.  
  
But at night,  
sleepless,  
he wants those whimpers again.  
Not the demon this time,  
but the man  
... which is worse?  
  
He falls deep one night,  
past his man  
demon at the foregate.  
Spike hasn't a chance;  
Sirestrong,  
memories of old,  
of the unmentioned... Angelus,  
it all binds Spike into submission.  
  
Surge of rage passes,  
back to a shivering white body beneath him.  
Blue eyes dark,  
hatred? fear?  
  
Remembering,  
clouded in William's screams,  
enjoyed by the demon,  
making the man cringe.  
William never screamed in pleasure.  
Only pain,  
pain without glory,  
and now it's all he sees.  
Caught inside.  
  
Blossomed pain,  
real - not of memories,  
words.  
Angel finally sees.  
  
'Poof'  
  
Not hatred, not fear,  
but need.  
Hunger in those eyes,  
hunger that asks to be sated.  
By him.  
All of him.  
Not denying man nor demon.  
  
'Hurt me some more'  
  
His mouth looses its questions  
to a searching togue,  
that swallows his guilt.  
His shame.  
  
A dark embrace,  
seduced by a wicked tongue.  
Clawing flesh  
dripping with blood.  
Wet tongue, slicking,  
sliding, soaking him up.  
Taking him in.  
Feeds his want.  
No denial.  
Shame doesn't live here anymore.  
  
Only family.


	4. Life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted 2006-11-28] unbetaed human!Angel/Buffy, and Spike, post NFA

A fluttering pulse under the palm of my hand.  
Life pumping.  
thump  
One beat.  
thump  
Two beat.  
An echoing chorus of itself.

Warm body, moving against my fingers.  
It tickles you say.  
Laughter in my ear,  
a whispering breath against my neck,  
an answering pulse.  
We're two now.

Your skin is still so soft,  
like smoothest silk wrapped around bones and flesh.  
But now there are shades of color,  
blushes of heat, fanning across your throat, chest,  
blood flowing underneath the surface.  
Alive.

I cannot stop touching.  
The warmth heating me up from outside,  
a heart sounding against mine.  
Your throat feel so vulnerable now,  
a moving flutter against my hand,  
like butterfly wings beneath the skin.

Kisses like desire made new,  
you taste the same,  
yet new.  
Slick heat, salty sweat,  
pearls to chase with my tongue.  
Heat spilling inside me,  
and hot breath in my ear,  
life and living.  
New thing.  
Terrifying thing.  
Love(ly) thing.

Everything needs to be taken in,  
tasted, touched and felt.  
Fresh crayfish and hot butter off the stand,  
licking your fingers and childlike wonder at the taste and smell.  
Standing in the rain and not worry when the clouds move away.

Chasing the waves, sand in your hair,  
skin burned by the sun, and it's all still good.  
It's all new,  
like life before second death never counted,  
the life forgotten to be done anew.

Like you cannot stop moving,  
afraid you might miss something.  
Die before you can experience it.  
Like you suddenly have a clock ticking inside your chest.  
tick  
One beat.  
tick  
Two beat.  
Time slowly killing you.  
Us.  
Humanity.

 

 

Is this my redemption?  
Is this what I wanted?  
What I want?  
Changed into something else,  
reborn like a caterpillar,  
to be cocooned.  
Needing to bury the old,  
for the new to erupt.

Sunbeams dancing as you move, bend and twist,  
arching on my fingers as they curl inside you.  
The power shifts,  
inside and out.  
Strange to be the weaker one,  
yet so much bigger than you.  
Still feel like I could hold you in the palm of my hand,  
cherished and protected.

Give and take,  
new shades of the old.  
Learning each other,  
new weaknesses and strengths.  
Is it still me you see?  
Am I too human for you now?

 

 

He sees us watching him,  
in the glance of an eye.  
I see him watching you,  
wonders at the new you.  
Sharp comments in hidden grief.  
He hides in the shadows,  
alone and left behind.  
Split apart by sun, a beating heart,  
life.

And inside I still remeber the chill of his touch.  
Know you do to.  
Read it in his eyes.  
Like dusty fingerprints,  
tainted memory from another life.  
You find it in his eyes still,  
memories that stay as fresh as they day you made them,  
vivid as the day you told me about your family.  
Deeds done, desire and wickedness,  
pure hearts and devoured souls.  
Blood and fear, all trapped inside.  
Ensouled guilt you never lost.

He watches us now.  
Our lives slowly changing with time.  
thump/tick  
One beat.  
thump/tick  
Two beat.  
Will he stay till the circle is closed?


	5. Shadowplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted 2006-12-01] unbetaed Spike/Angel

Shadowplay  
  
  
  
In the dead of night,  
the silence breaks.  
Living sounds,  
of bodies meeting in anger,  
knife edge of hate and longing,  
of caresses and wounds.  
  
Bodies silent.  
A vampire's breath  
as quiet as the shadows they cast.  
Till they break, moments to forget.  
Flesh and blood, kisses and tongues,  
taste of something else than stale blood and grief.  
  
Skin gleaming white,  
flicker of a broken streetlight intruding,  
breaking the memory of gas lights and easier times.  
When a soul was nothing,  
and family was everything.  
Never alone.  
Cold bodies and sharp fangs,  
arms and legs everywhere.  
Underneath the covers,  
wicked deeds and thorned roses,  
dead things for princess  
and crosses for daddy.  
  
Fingers opening him up, slick and sliding,  
even this has changed.  
Gentle force, and things have never been so new and old at the same time.  
Scratches down his thighs,  
wrapped tighter around strong ribs  
and arching back.  
Deep inside and never deep enough.  
  
The gryphon's wings beneath his hands,  
black outlines against his lips.  
Slick tongue and fine caresses,  
gentle when no eyes upon him.  
Dark hair tickles his hand, slides between fingers  
and the ghost of long lost curls the boy was never allowed to play with.  
  
Swollen lips, cherried red,  
like the first time he serviced on his knees.  
No breath and swallowed sin,  
dark eyes a well he could drown in.  
Sink so deep, never be the same again.  
Words and fists,  
showing him how to please.  
How daddy wants it.  
  
Angelus,  
the bell tolled.  
Devotion and terror. Sire.  
Prayers spoken into dirty sheets,  
screamed from chains and lashes,  
lessons learned.  
The innocence stripped,  
now the disciple you made.  
(I am all that you see,  
I am all that you want me to be.)  
  
Lips and kisses,  
fangs and whispers,  
words crowding in his throat.  
White sheets, and feather pillows,  
secrets hidden in muffled breaths  
and choked pleadings.  
  
Please, and yes.  
Harder, fuck me.  
(Never let me go,  
hold you deep inside,  
don't forget,  
let me be yours again)  
Words curled on a tongue,   
kissed quiet.  
  
Sheets cold,  
bodies curled close,  
breaths gone quiet again.  
Nights to never speak of,  
another memory you share.  
  
Blood and desire,  
here it finds it's rightful place.  
When the dam breaks,  
you don't have to hide.


	6. Their boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted 2006-12-01] unbetaed, Fanged Four

Their boy  
  
  
  
  
Ice in her eyes,  
blue as innocence.  
Fake front,  
clear cut through to the inside,  
where the chill holds fast   
and winter never fades.  
  
Filth in his eyes,  
the darkness within  
taints the angel's face.  
Like the pattern of blood,  
on a nun's habit.  
Devil's artwork,  
passion in corruption.  
The young one's tied,  
his body splayed.  
For pleasure. For show.  
For him to toy with.  
  
Joy in her eyes,  
a heart still warm in her hand.  
His gift, for her,  
all for her.  
Dark pride in his princess,  
as he struggles to be like the angel,  
like the monster they want him to be.  
  
Fear in their eyes,  
soft prey and rich blood.  
His true face to meet them,  
his fangs in their flesh,  
white slivers of ice that cut so deep.  
Family taught him well.


	7. And the wish was made flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2008-11-11 for wrisomifu] unbetaed Darla

And the Wish was made Flesh

 

She's cold like winter's touch  
pieces of glass that won't break  
but cut you to ribbons if you hold her too tight.

Fist your hand and demand that she stays,  
she'll laugh in your face.  
And fly off on her own.

Riches and silk, jewels and men.  
Never again the prison of old bed linens  
dirty bodies and no choices to spare.  
Now she's got the world kneeling at her feet  
it just doesn't know until she comes calling.

Beg and crawl.  
Kiss her satin slippers.  
Cling to her petticoats.

You're nothing but circus animals for her.  
Perform and she might spare you,  
for another minute or so.

Perhaps even an hour,   
before you have   
her teeth in your skin  
your life swallowed down her throat.

She's a beauty and terror,  
blood down her gullet and a smile on her face.  
Lips like rubies as they whisper your death  
licks your sweat and taste your fear.

Nothing's sweet but life drained,  
power of life and death.  
Her life now like the old dreams in darkness,  
tired body on bloodstained sheets

Wrath as cold as the grave  
and joy for men begging for their lives.  
Nobility dirtied,   
their white hands sullied-  
puppets begging to dance on her string.

Looking to find her an angel   
to be made worthy of her promises.

 

 

_Angelus prayer_

_V- The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary._   
_R- And she conceived of the Holy Spirit._   
_(Hail Mary....)_

_V- Behold the handmaid of the Lord._   
_R- Be it done unto me according to thy word._   
_(Hail Mary....)_

_V- And the Word was made Flesh._   
_R- And dwelt among us._   
_(Hail Mary....)_

_V- Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God._   
_R- That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ._


	8. Lost things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-05-31]   
> Title: Lost things  
> Fandom: AtS season 5 ghost!Spike  
> Status: finished - 138 words  
> Genre: angsty Spike POV  
> Short summary: Spike doesn't enjoy being a ghost

Oh God, I want out. But I can't move past this place - his domain, past boundaries I can feel tearing at me. I don't want to be here anymore. I can't stand him looking at me but never seeing me, his eyes skimming over me but never resting. Only seeing sins and hatred and lost things that will never be allowed to come alive again. He's stripping me bare with that not-look, my flesh raw and sore, an open wound to his thoughts that are never expressed out loud. Only in the way he turns away from me, his shoulder tense when he turns his back on me only to relax the second after. No longer a threat, no longer something to worry about. Dismissed, not even punished, not even voiced at... just ignored. Null. Empty. Void.


	9. To find ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2004-11-16 ]  
> Title: To find ground  
> Fandom: AtS season 5  
> Status: finished - 356 words  
> Genre: slash Spike/Angel, hurt/comfort?  
> Short summary: two companion pieces in Spike and Angel's POV, rated mature for words and imagery  
> ... here goes my very first venture into Buffy/Angel fandom, unbetaed.  
> Timeline: sometime after end of Buffy season 7 and partly into Angel season 5 ( I suck at remembering the names of the episodes. sorry.)

**Spike**  
  
  
The bruising hands tethered him to the ground, possessed him and told him of an existing now to live in.  
  
The big cock spearing him, pushing, pulling, insistently and unforgiving. Desperately showing him pleasure still existed.  
  
Rough grip pulling on sweat curled hair, landing him rough and thoroughly against a rock hard chest, gave him anticipation. There was suddenly expectance, something around the bend to stay and look for. To find.  
  
And then it came, the reason he struggled with still being here. Punished, unallowed rest, the dreams of burning up mixed with a touch he couldn't believe in. Because that would hurt more than the fire. Suddenly there it was, hope delivered as Angel's teeth sank deeply. Swallowing his blood, his sorrows, but giving him a home. Blood bound ground to stand on.  


 

  
  
**Angel**  
  
  
He could almost taste the grayness on his Childe, the smothering of something, curled around him, mixed with his skin, his scent.  _Him_.  
  
It scented like…   
  
It was the sick smell of giving up. The same scent an animal gave away as it dragged itself off to lie down and die.   
  
He wouldn't allow it. His property was his to damn, to destroy, to fuck and to neglect.  
  
It was all again; history repeating itself in a nightmare that suddenly had turned into an ever existing mare, riding him day and night. Spike became a broken tooth he couldn’t stop touching, flaring pain or numbness depending on whether you touched the nerve or not.  
  
It finally cracked, power pushed into skin and bones, leaving blue tracks once again on white.  
  
His boy needed to know he was more than a shadow, needed to feel, that he was no longer ashes to the wind, a shadow yo-yoed into hell and back. Nothing more than a paperclip in this grinding machine of his. Bent, broken with no one to see it.  
  
Angel would make him see it. Blood and bones, soul and history, fighting till the abyss Spike danced with closed its jaws.  
  
Marking him, punishing him into the now, fucking him into tomorrow and draining blood for a future.  
  
Owning him again.


	10. Innocence played

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-09-17]  
> Title: Innocence played  
> Fandom: Ats/BtVS, Fanged Four  
> Status: finished - 408 words  
> Genre: slash Spike/Angelus, hints at daddykink  
> Short summary: Angelus contemplates William on his knees, Angelus POV

He's so pretty on his knees, the way his shoulders curve when he holds his wrists behind his back. When his skin is open for my view, sometimes his belly shivers and his nipple hardens. He's waiting. For my sign. For anything I can give him. His thighs, tensed or relaxed. He's trying to figure out my mood. What I want, what I need from him. Has he behaved? Does he wait for me to hurt him? I know those thighs, how they feel trembling around me or grasping so tight, locked behind my back, his feet digging in.  
  
I love the power I have over him, the way he's learned to bend. But never break. His skin, his bones, but never the man or the monster. His tears that he tries to hide, so bitter to him, so sweet on my tongue. His passion, his anger, his need for me. I created that need, for him to want my bruises on his skin like marks of owning, my teeth inside him bleeding him, making these sweet noises of submission. How I love those sighs and whispered curses. When he takes the Lord in vain when I'm deep inside him, splitting him open on my cock, to hear him beg and plead and whimper.  
  
His eyes. Blue, always those babyblues and the coalblack eyelashes and the way the peak out between darkblonde locks. I don't know how he can still look so innocent. Soft curve of his lips, I know their taste, their texture, how the break open between my teeth and the taste of his blood makes fireworks on my tongue. I've seen him coated in blood and full of glee over the kill he just made, and the same night I have him here on the floor, and he looks like this. Like he doesn't know how to suck my prick drier than the Sahara, or beg me to touch him, to let him come. There is nothing innocent left in him, except maybe the borrowed blood from the virgin a few hours ago. But he knows what I like, he gives pleasure my boy does. That's why he's been waiting for me, so I can once again have the pleasure of taking his innocence, gorge myself on his blood and body, having him call for God, and plead for mercy I'll never give and he never really wants. He just plays so well for daddy.


	11. The minutes before waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-07-28]  
> Title: The minutes before waking up  
> Fandom: AtS, post NFA  
> Status: finished - 439 words  
> Genre: angst, Spike/Connor, implied slash Spike/Angelus, and implied Spike/Drusilla  
> Short summary: written for SUMMER_OF_SPIKE. Spike remembers.

He could still taste ash in his mouth, didn't matter how much he tried to get rid of it, it still burned. They didn't quite know why they had survived, not even sure how because they'd escaped the burning around them that had turned most of LA's inhabitants to oily ash that stuck to every surface, except when rain came to wash it down the streets in black puddles and greasy stains. Not even the raindrops tasted like they were supposed to. The clouds had been sucking up too much of the black smoke that billowed from the ruins and it left it tar-like in it's taste, made things feel too much like they were back home... then. When fires were built with peat, gaslights on the streets and women in long ankle-dusting dresses and everything smelled like wet dirt, sweat ... and home. It created a longing for simpler days, a longing Spike hated because there had been nothing good about England, now had there?  
  
But that little voice inside spoke of hot blood gushing down your throat, Drusilla's body curled around you in bed and the heady smells of family, sex and Angelus voice in his ear as he was told to lie still and sleep.  
  
He missed that voice, those words and that special brand Angelus had of showing you he liked your efforts to please him. Punishing hands turned to stroking ones, pain and pleasure mixed into one and he could say his name, beg him and be rewarded. He was a good boy, hands curled into his hair, curving around his skull holding him in place as he'd be used. But he wanted to be used, he wanted to taste to feel, to be held in place and be showed what to do. Be ordered and know he was pleasing his grandsire, to beg for more and be given. Soft and skimming teasing above trembling skin, fangs cutting into skin soothed with tongue leaving wet trails, shivering needing aching for more. Rough and hard, taking on as much as he could, only struggling to be closer, to have him fill him up, make him whole, show him he'd been good.  
  
  
Those times were when he woke up curled around his human, his nose in the nape of a warm neck, the long strands of soft hair tickling his face and sleepy breaths curling around him under the shelter of the covers. Angel's boy with Angel's scent. For these minutes past and present blended and for a second he was happy and there was no hole inside empty, missing an important piece of the puzzle.


	12. Behind closed eyelids he can enjoy the touches...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2006-02-14]  
> Title: Behind closed eyelids he can enjoy the touches...   
> Fandom: Spike and Angel in a non specified timeline except both are souled  
> Status: finished - 479 words  
> Genre: slash Spike/Angel, hurt/comfort?  
> Short summary: see title

There's a masochistic part of Spike that likes getting hurt, feeling every bone in his body grate together splinted edges with a blinding pain, forcing him to stay still. Counting time, dreading it to end warring with wanting his body back whole again, as the itchy feeling of skin slowly closing ragged wounds.   
  
Because in his burning ache and dazed brain his arguments are ignored. Hidden secrets he doesn't admit to himself unless his blood is painting his bruised skin red and black. With his walls down, his mind busy to take the pain, it allows relief to slink through. Removing his choice to move away, to object noisily, when strong hands slide over naked skin with a wet cloth. Not allowing him to object to being taken care of,  _being pampered_. He can let his eyes close and fake it, secretly enjoying it with the bitter taste of still being so bloody soft to want this. Because this is not in the soul, William always treasured this kind of attention. Scarce as it was after Dru took him to meet his new family. Feeling the weirdness, perversity that this reminds him of his childhood and mother drying tears and bandaging a hand burned on the stove.   
  
Somewhere inside he feels the need to tell Angel to move it along, that the gentleness is too strange to even consider. He should tease him about being such a poof, tell him to get his hands off his hot little body or do something useful with them. But he doesn't dare.  _Doesn't want his hands to stop. Doesn't want to hear Angelus',_ Angel's,  _reply. 'Doing you a favour. Like I'd ever touch you because I want to'._  
  
He doesn't need,  _doesn't want to need_ , Angel's,  _daddy's_ , approval, nor his overbearing poofness to feel guilt-tripped into worrying about him. Hate is easier than pity. Hate burns, pity just crumbles things inside. Breaks it into itty bitty pieces that stab whenever you see it in their eyes,  _hazel or brown don't matter_.   
  
Especially Angelus, pity from him is worse than his displeasure. Angelus' scorn over Dru's silly,  _nevergoodenough_ , poet who's reeking with emotions. Who never learned how to be cold and calculating enough to fit Angelus' standards.  _Never be daddy's boy._  
  
But behind closed eyelids he can enjoy the touches, even if they're not skin to skin, separated by bandages. Feel a cool hand on his forehead, and listen to Angel murmur curses about not being careful enough, always running into danger and that he's a stupid little fuck. Their souled selves have always been better at talking to each other when they can pretend the other one doesn't hear you. Angelus and William did it differently. Angelus preached with the help of his cane and William listened, Spike needed more welts to succumb but in the end Angelus always got his audience to listen.  
  
Now they pretend they don't listen, but soak up every word.


	13. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-07-28]  
> Title: Hands  
> Fandom: AtS season 5  
> Status: finished - 529 words  
> Genre: slash Spike/Angel(us), rated R for sexual as well as violent imagery  
> Short summary: written for SUMMER_OF_SPIKE. Spike thinks about Angel/us hands

Sometimes he finds himself staring at Angel's hands. They're large hands, broad palm and long thick fingers that... and then he forces himself to stop that train of thoughts. Because thinking about Angel's hands leads to thinking about his touch which leads to longing and desire which definitely leads to more whisky guzzled down.  
  
He don't want to think about that heavy muscled body and how it feels having it weighing down on you, pressing you into the mattress, the floor, a wall... hell any surface will do.  
  
But no, he doesn't think about that. Instead he goes out and kills demons and saves some people. All that righteous warrior bullshit which really gets under Angel's skin that he isn't the only one with soul, not the only undead hero anymore. It's not a competition... it's just getting steam off. That's right. Not proving to Angel he can be something else.  
  
Not thinking about those hands and their brutal touch, not about that broad muscled back or sinking your hands into it, holding on, pushing against. Like an unmovable mountain that you can be pushed against till you're crushed and crumbled. Or sheltered, no definitely not thinking about Angelus curved around you in a possessive grip. Made you feel owned, wanted... like you belonged. And not just existing in the outskirts of things, gliding around without any purchases anywhere.  
  
He wants to be proven he's worthy to be wanted again ... but has been proven against so many times you end up doubting yourself. But only behind the facade where no one really sees. Hopefully no one sees. Maybe Fred did. She saw more than you thought, and things peaked through the facade that you never meant to show. But she's gone now. Blue meanie instead. There had been several seconds that being seen as her pet gave warmth inside. But only seconds. Cause hanging onto that didn't do you any good in the end.  
  
Alcohol helps... to a point, till it washes memories up to the surface... memories of slick skin sliding against yours, hands gliding as they seek to hold tighter, to move closer, to be crushed and wanted and belong and to be filled to the brink. Until you're so full you don't know where to turn but only try and come closer, to be taken over by someone else and made a part of them. To try and crawl inside, to sink your nails into that soft skin and hold on, to feel the fangs in your neck holding you down, drinking you ... taking you inside, as your body is curled around theirs in every possible way. Reduced in need, the aching need that climbs higher and higher but not allowed to fly off. No the hard hold keeps you crying out, begging for it to let go at the same time as the burn inside is craved. Begging pleading till that rough voice tells you to come and you fly off, arching panting, gasping for air you don't need.  
  
No, in the end it doesn't help it all... It only makes you want to beg, beg for something that no longer is given.


	14. Passion...less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-07-28]  
> Title: Passion...less  
> Fandom: AtS, post NFA  
> Status: finished - 541 words  
> Genre: angsty, Spike POV on Angel, rated PG  
> Short summary: written for SUMMER_OF_SPIKE.

The dragon had been slain by Angel but not until it had taken a big chunk out of him. He still wasn't back on his feet fully yet. But it wasn't so much the pieces of flesh he was still missing as just ... him. After the bodies were all on the ground and no one left to fight, it was like Angel had been reduced to a body with no one home.  
  
Maybe it was the hope turning into dust, the hope that this apocalypse actually meant something. That Wesley and Gunn didn't die for nothing. But in the end - no one took notice. The papers tried to explain a freak storm, an earthquake that only took one house down and a gangfight that many had seen out of the corner of the eye but never any details, and it hadn't left any bodies. No bodies -- no proof, and the papers and the police let it be.  
  
It was like that night had existed at the edges of reality, a vacuum where they saved the world but no one would get to know about it. Once again an averted apocalypse and the heroes left without even a 'thanks for saving us' -- again.  
  
It was beginning to be a theme Spike thought, heroes unsung and all that rot. No one ever knew the deaths Buffy had endured, the pain, the suffering for everyone just so they could sit at home on their arses and watch the telly. It was all so fucked up. Angel was a hero in his own way. Selfless bastard he'd become. And all he got in gratitude was living, so he could be forced to do it again and again until he'd been used up into an empty shell... and tossed away.  
  
It was like a sickness inside that ate him slowly, piece by piece... but let the body regenerate creating a prison of flesh he could stay trapped in longer like that.  
  
He fed, he moved, he killed... but he didn't speak, he didn't look at anyone and he just seemed so empty. No passion, no violence, no reaction -- just going through the motions. Not even brooding properly anymore. The first time he wished his Sire was rolling in guilt over old sins past, cause it was a helluva lot better thought than the knowledge that he no longer cared. About anything. Angel could sit and stare into a wall, without a reaction, his face never changing except the occasional blink for his eyes to not dry in their sockets. Mechanical animal fuelled up on blood. Blood alone. The violence, the demon itself, had always been what had fuelled Angelus and gave him the interest in finding new ways to torture and find passion in new things. After the soul it had been the fight to keep the memories at bay, to try and let the demon out on the unrighteous so he could save some and hope that it had made some sense on the scale of right and wrong. Although in the end redemption really didn't mean anything did it? Just a word. He was never going to find it because if this fight hadn't done it, then what would?


	15. He's for Drusilla to play with

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-02-22]  
> He's for Drusilla to play with  
> Fandom: BtVS/AtS sorta. Just a little Angelus, Dru, William  
> Status: finished - 571 words  
> Genre: Drusilla/William  
> Short summary: Angelus POV on Dru and her new toy, R for violent imagery   
> Notes: This is completely unbeta'd. I've hardly written anything in this fandom - one drabble before I think, so if I screw up canon it's totally my own fault.

The light had finally died away and released them once again. The dim light from the gaslights outside their room created shadows on pale skin and rough linens.  
  
Drusilla's latest pet still slept like a human, breathing still a habit and curled into the quilts almost childlike. It intrigued him on some level this new human she'd brought amongst them. Only he wasn't human now was he... No, he just hadn't shed his old skin yet. Held on to it like a child with its blanket.  
  
He'd let Drusilla have her fun for now. She'd upped her play lately, he'd heard the mewling sounds, the pleads. Knowing Dru, she'd keep playing till eventually she'd tire.   
  
He shifted a little on the chair, inclining his head and this time really looked at the slender body curled on top of the bed. Sandy locks of hair that looked very feminine spread out over the white pillowcase, slender arms that hugged the quilts tight to a lithe pale body. He'd have to admit, his Drusilla may be mad as a hatter but she wanted her things to be beautiful. Beautiful but flawed. Too weak, but also totally devoted to his Dark Goddess. The boy actually brought some relief with him to their little family - he was an excellent distraction for Dru.  
  
Distraction enough to be worth keeping for a while. He had plans for breaking it into it's new skin. Oh yes he had. He wanted that innocence gone. Just to see what would be left, if there even was anything underneath it or if it'd just end up broken. God knows, Drusilla broke enough toys to leave pieces of them around constantly. If it wasn't dolls, with the bodies broken but the heads intact, staring up as they littered the floor it was carcasses of things that had once been alive. Puppies, blood spattered, white mixed with colourful in glistening peekaboo's in matted fur. He'd tried to rid her of the habit of leaving the toys around the house after she was finished with them. Stepping into cold congealing blood was not amusing. But Drusilla had a tendency to forget things, so he had to remind her often. Not that he really minded in the end, she always made the prettiest noises. Her hair the rich black, mixed with the dark blood over her pale pale skin, painting patterns every time she tossed her head, crying out for her Daddy. No, he didn't mind that part one bit.  
  
It was as if she'd known his thoughts, maybe she did. Mostly she sprouted inane things about the stars and the little things flying around her head that she'd keep swatting after. Crying out that they tormented her. Or it was the stars. But once again she'd look at him with those dark eyes of hers and he'd remember clearly why he'd chosen her in the first place. She had the Gift, the Seeing... too bad it was all tainted by madness. Darla had gotten tired of her more often lately. Maybe she'd known. Maybe her stars and demons had told her she needed a keeper.  
  
Right now she was staring at him from other side of that naked back, her hand caressing the air above naked skin. Black eyes trained on him, pink tongue slowly licking red lips as she leans down toward those golden locks, "Wake up my prince, Daddy wants to play."


	16. Darla thinks of William and Angelus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-09-28]  
> Title: Darla thinks of William and Angelus  
> Fandom: pre-series BtVS/AtS (Fanged four)  
> Status: finished - 643 words   
> Genre: rated PG15?  
> Short summary: Darla watches and thinks of their new family member

His skin so pale, like it should be to suit his stature - that of a Victorian gentleman. No long hours in the sun for him, cannot have it discolor such soft unused hide. Never seen a day's work those hands, milky soft virgin skin. Now it will stay this color, still looking pure and sweet and... genteel. On the outside. Appearances are everything. He will learn, quickly -- or he will not survive. We may be the predators here but we are less in numbers than they. And numbers hold strength of their own.

We protect the young. But only if they behave according to the rules, prove their worth. He's still so new. Hungry, raw, excelling in adapting to the vampire's powerful nature. But so fumbling in his passion for blood. Such a messy eater and quite like a puppy in his efforts to impress Drusilla. No, William hasn't quite adapted yet, not to the family rules and regulations. He will. I've allowed these first days, watching him enjoy the attention of his Dark Godess. Oh, how delightful you are William. Quite the mouthful. Call yourself a poet, you deceive yourself young man, to think your words are anything but amusing. But then of course, around Drusilla it's easy to think you are more than you are. She hangs onto every word, loves her new pet and thinks you in a better light than you are.

Crazy and tiresome mostly our dear Dru, but she's proven her worth. I'll let her keep him for now but he does need training. Then we'll see if young William gets to be a part of us. To see if he can amount to more than fledgling feedings and wet hearts in boxes for his new love. Angelus will take care of it.

He's been watching the boy the last couple of days. He desires him. He'll want to test him, to see how far he can bend him -- to see if he cracks like Drusilla. I will have to have a talk with him. Angelus likes his torture, likes his power and well... it has been a while since he had a male to play with. A boy of his own to teach. Penn was such a disappointment really. But Drusilla is better with a keeper, calmer. William does well in taking care of her even though he's so young. He adores her and therefore he's useful unbroken. Her whining and suffering and gibberish is less. Not that Angelus would agree with me. That fool seems to understand it. I know she's his creation, but still ... that understanding doesn't say well for him now does it?

William's lucky so far. He doesn't know it yet. He doesn't know that by being such a fumbling boy and oh so careful of her he's been spared. Angelus doesn't like his things marked, not by anyone than himself. The boy will learn soon enough.

Cut to ribbons, draped and displayed. The scent of his blood permeating the room heavy with the tang of fear. Bound, gagged, the only sound will be his muffled tears and cries of pain. He'll suffer quite delisciously I believe. He has the colors for it, it makes him look even more innocent. Light against the darkness of my boy.

He has exceeded my expectations, my darling boy. Brutal but with finesse... true wickedness and clever enough to get him anywhere. Everywhere. The finesse is taught, as so much else of the planning and calculating. Pain and pleasure can be such excellent motivators. But Angelus adapts well. His intelligence, charm and bloodthirst has taken him much further than I would ever have believed when I found him. He's become quite the master vampire in his own, ingenious at terror. Angelus, scourge of Europe. It does have a nice ring to it.


	17. Skin to skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-10-07]  
> Title: Skin to skin  
> Fandom: AtS, post NFA  
> Status: finished - 840 words  
> Genre: slash Spike/Xander, pr0ny, hurt/comfort  
> Short summary: LADYCAT777 wanted something distracting in her comments - I wrote her this.

Sometimes Spike couldn't help it, it was like a need that couldn't be fulfilled. A deep hole inside that seemed empty no matter what. When those days happened he knew he was needy, clingy and just wanted attention - but Xander never saw it that way. He always told him off for putting himself down. Spike did the same for Xander when it was his turn to feel out of place, they both had days when it seemed nothing was right. When you needed to lean a little extra, when you wanted more than that fleeting good morning kiss before hurrying to work, more than those 'I love you's'. Words couldn't fill those days. Touch and caresses wasn't enough, you needed to be showed, to feel that you were needed, wanted,  _owned_  beyond a shadow of a doubt.  
  
It came with the years, this intimate knowledge of each other that nothing was ever too much to ask for. Xander learned that giving Spike pain wasn't hurting him, not in the way Xander thought. No, it hurt in the good way. That burning sensation when you don't know where to go, when you crawl on your hands and knees away but really only moving closer, climbing past the pain to that pleasure that whitens everything out. To get to that good melted bones feeling afterwards, caressing the marks, digging deep into the bruises just to feel them. To know they're there, if only for a fleeting moment. Those times, when Spike can see Xander's hands still on him in shades of color, that's when he really doesn't like this whole vampire constitution and rapid healing. Once, he'd gotten Xander to burn his print into him with holy water. Only once. Xander didn't like the smell, that sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh, that shuddering feeling he got seeing smoke curl up from his lover's skin and not in a pleasant way. No, sometimes they reached far enough together to find each others boundaries, where one of them thought it was enough. Which made it enough for both of them, it wasn't wanted as much when you realise the other part of you really didn't approve of it. When you realised that it hurt him.  
  
But Spike had treasured that handprint as long as it lasted, low on his stomach it stood out starkly red against the his pale soft skin. It said mine, it said owned in so much more than he could say with words. He'd wanted to go to LA and show it to Angel. But Xander after his first wicked grin, didn't think it was such a good idea. He doubted Angel would approve of Xander marking Spike like that. Spike had told him about those months at Wolfram and Hart before the big battle, when occasionally him and 'the big poof' had landed in bed together. When Angel couldn't help touch him to know he was real. Xander still felt such jelaousy that it boiled inside him when he thought about Angel's hands being the first to touch Spike after being burned alive and then being turned into a ghost so no one could touch him, just a whisper of breath that everyone could ignore. Spike may not have said so much, but Xander knew so well .. they were both tactile persons, human touch meant so much just by so little and imagining being a shadow of nothing that people could walk through... it hurt to know Deadboy's large hams of hands had been there. And not him. Not Xander.  
  
But Spike always was good at pointing out who it was that had him now, who it was that had that cool body wrapped around him like a silk sheet, skin to skin and nothing in between. Who it was that got those whispers against that soft spot on the neck, words of 'love', 'pet' and wicked things like only Spike could say first thing in the morning and make it feel like there was no such thing as ever getting out of bed. That cool fist wrapped around his cock, lips wet and soft against his shoulder, soon making him forget all about being tired and cranky in the too early dawn. Making Xander appriciate every little second before he has to go off to work. It was Spike who pointed out whose hands he wanted to tie him up, but it was Xander who teased, licked, bit and left him wanting for those hours while Xander was at work. It was Xander who enjoyed the power of having Spike, who was hard as rock at work and called in naughty messages on the speaker phone. It was Xander who knew Spike lay home waiting for him, to come home and fulfill all those promises spoken on the answering machine. And it is both of them who goes to sleep exhausted, wrapped in each other, as close as can be and know that it's what they both want. Skin to skin and nothing in between.


	18. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted 2005-10-24]  
> Title: Change  
> Fandom: BtVS, season 2 School Hard  
> Status: finished - 991 words  
> Genre: angsty, angry slash Spike/Angel  
> Short summary: I asked for drabble prompts and BAYOUSKYE replied and wanted 'some angsty smutty Spangel set right after the scene at the high school when Angel used Xander like a piece of bait.' Little on the smut, it did get a bit angsty, some biting and PG-15 for cursing and imagery like the word erection? Played in a world where they meet up afterwards and Spike doesn't have a split skull thanks to Joyce's axe.

So the big dumb wanker actually thought I was gonna fall for that? Like I wouldn't know the instant he looked at me that he was off, wrong. That he's still that Angelbeast. That's what Dru would say if she was strong enough to be here. No I don't need my Dark Godess to know it was a lie standing in front of me. He doesn't even smell the same. Angelus wouldn't smell like pig's blood, and bloody hell but he's shrunken. So much smaller he is. Angelus was a big brute, God how he made me feel so small. On purpose of course, he loved being the biggest baddest thing ever. This... this thing is nothing but a fangless pup feeding on butcher leftovers and still hasn't recovered from his diet of rat and guilt. And he thinks I'm gonna fall for that look, like his gameface would hide anything. Please! It didn't matter how much fear and anger was pouring out of that boy, it couldn't hide that shell of a Sire's scent from me. Like I wouldn't know the difference from Angelus' scent. It was family, desire and hatred for so long. More hatred than anything else really. That watered down version smells off, it's that bloody guilt that has creeped into his pores to forever stay there.  
  
But then it's me after all, and I don't mind much he's not Angelus. This way I get to punch him without being strung up for daddy's pleasure and whip. This way I get to hear him say he's sorry for leaving, but he would kill me if he got the chance. Maybe he will, maybe he won't. I'm the stronger one now. Right now he knows his precious little miss muffet is okay, because I'm focused on him. On his lips bloodied by my knuckles. I want to lick it off. I want to taste, to see if the guilt tastes bitter. If the soul burns.  
  
No, I don't mind he's not Angelus. Not when He's guilty enough to say, to whisper it as if I wouldn't hear him bending so far as to say please Will. I wanted to hear that voice say please too many effin' times to count. His fists doesn't hurt quite the same anymore, laughable really. Asking me to leave. It shames him to admit it but he doesn't want me to hunt this Slayer. And it's not because of her, no he thinks I'm the one who will die. One dance with death to many. We'll see. I will not give her up, even for lips stained with Sire's blood, not for pleading dark eyes that doesn't have an Angelus anywhere. No darkness, no fire. Fuck it, but I bloody do mind. I mind so fucking much he's not Him. I want him here to see what I've become, really see and fucking appriciate my skills. To prove the bastard wrong. I hate that he left us and I hate it even more that I still feel it. That empty fucking hole that Drusilla cannot fill, becuase she's just as empty as me. The words rush out of me, as they always do. A flood I cannot stop becuase my feelings burn in my blood, I never could get that chill Angelus demanded. I'm always going to be words and emotions, no matter if I write them in blood on torn skin or scream them through a mouthful of fangs. Sorry Sire, but this you couldn't break from me. This bit IS me.  
  
I tell him to take his wanking new persona and fuck off, I have Slayer plans to make. He can go off with his new human playmates and have a go at the sandbox, that shell doesn't rule me.   
  
Oh, but he tries with planting me face first into the wall when I ignore him. He's still enough Angelus in him to hate the fact that I dare to ignore him. Like he's nothing to fear anymore. I can't help the glee from pulling my bloodstained lips into a toothy grin when I hear the brogue come back. So, the big nasty demon isn't completely gone then.  
  
His teeth still feel the same when they tear into my neck,  _William_  still sounds the same with his mouth full of my blood. And for a few seconds there I forget myself, I let the scent of my blood and his rage cloud me and let me believe I'm home. His large frame pinning me against the wall, his erection against my hip, and I'm so hard I know I would come just like this if he said the word. But he just drinks me down, his hands bruising my wrists in patterns I've missed seeing, missed feeling my body ache because of him. Instead of for him.  
  
I realise too late that he won't let me come, he never had any intention to do so ... this is how he'll kill me? With memories that made me weak, so he could empty me? I flail weakly, a whine high in my throat and suddenly he releases me. But as Angelus would have left me fall he gentles me on the ground, and tells me to 'please leave Will'. He's about to run a hand through my hair, but I no longer have locks for him to curl around his large hands. He looks a little lost and I want to say something, but my lips are almost numb and I'll soon fall asleep till my body recuperates. I get my bloody Sire's kiss before he leaves, but it's my blood I taste and it tastes bitter. Bitter of memories and feelings I can't get rid of. How much I want to cut them out or brand them over with new ones. Like the bastard he is he owns that part of me. We soulless monsters don't change. No matter how much we want to.


	19. Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afterlife (166 words, gen, post series)

One day Spike would find the reason why they survived, because he refused to believe in Angel's version that they only survived to suffer.  
  
Angel is living in his head these days, his dead breath filled with ashes of friends lost. If Spike had any poetry left in his soul these days it'd be filled with pretty synonyms for grief, stubborness , asshole, bastard and love. That care can taste like charcoal and sour sweat, symbols on hands rough and untended for.  
  
The span of his Angel's shoulders no longer look like they'd be able to hold wings up high. The strength is hollowed out, slack and bent.  
  
Spike watches from the shadows as the morning light fills Angel's features and gives cruel clarity to a face that hardly sleeps. That hardly lives but for the stubborness of Spike and guilt to breed and tend to.  
  
Angel wears his new life like a hairshirt, like punishment and remembrance. He got gifted with life - but too many died.


End file.
